


Like Catnip

by KreweOfImp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Brat Dean, Butt Plugs, Castiel Has a Cat, Dean is a Little Shit, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub Play, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff and Smut, Gamer Castiel, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Team Dean's Red Ass, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:58:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7782424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp/pseuds/KreweOfImp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one thing to be pissed off that Cas was up late gaming and didn't come to bed when he said he would.  And yeah, Cas pretty much figured there was gonna be some sulking and he was gonna have to do some groveling to make up for it.  He maybe even could've foreseen the desire for a little revenge.</p><p>But did Dean really have to involve the <em>cat?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [relucant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/relucant/gifts).



> Once upon a time I became obsessed with Supernatural and started to read a fuckton of fanfic (spoiler alert: neither of those things have changed). One of the first pieces I read that I really fell in love with was a sweet little fic called [On The House](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1813942), by the magnificent [relucant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/relucant/pseuds/relucant).
> 
> A number of months later, I decided to try my hand at doing some writing, and was fairly astonished to discover that a whole bunch of people actually wanted to read the shit that my brain was producing. Feedback from my readers inevitably delighted (and continues to delight) me, but I can not possibly overstate the decibel level of the fangirl shriek I produced when I discovered that the author of the aforementioned On The House had actually somehow discovered my work, read it, taken the time to comment on it, and _liked_ it.
> 
> That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, forged over Supernatural, a lot of smut, middle of the night co-bitching about our combined inability to either sleep or write, Dean's red ass (of COURSE) and the fact that we're basically twinsies whose lives have paralleled one another's in a bunch of weird and random ways. Said twinsie had a birthday this past week, and I thought I would celebrate it the best way I know how; by writing. When I asked for any preferences for her birthday fic, I was told "fluffy Dean spanking." I very much hope this qualifies!
> 
> Cat, you're marvelous and I adore you. Here, have some smut.
> 
> NOTE: Just for fun (and with permission), this fic loosely takes place in the universe of one of relucant's lovely one-shots called [Ready Check](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6346450), a little over six months after the events of that fic. It's perfect; read it.

**Dean**

Last week, Sam shared a meme on Dean’s Facebook that read ‘There is no snooze button on a cat that wants breakfast.’  While in the abstract that tends to be true, Dean has to admit they got lucky with Etienne.

On weekdays, Dean’s up by 6:30, and one of the first things he does when he climbs out of bed is feed the eight or nine-year-old black cat (they’re not entirely sure how old he is—he was abandoned by whoever owned him last, and the shelter had to estimate his age).  Despite this routine, Etienne routinely waits until at least nine on weekends before putting his paws up on the edge of the bed and politely mrrping at Dean.  Dean’s always been both a morning person and a light sleeper, so that’s generally all it takes to get him up.

This Saturday the alarm clock on his bedside table reads 9:06 when the small sound breaks the quiet of the bedroom.  Stretching and rolling his neck, Dean reaches out to stroke the soft head affectionately, smiling sleepily as Etienne happily nuzzles his face into Dean’s hand.

When they went to the shelter six months ago after many weeks of discussion, it was with the intention of picking out a pair of kittens from one of the many litters the place was advertising on their website.  Dean probably shouldn’t have been surprised that on the way to the kitten room, Cas was waylaid and completely charmed by Etienne.

While the other adult cats in their kennels were sleeping or otherwise ignoring the passersby, one lone black cat had been standing alertly at the bars to his cage, watching the people moving back and forth with the bright-eyed, quiet interest that Dean now knew was just his way.  Cas had paused, back to the kennel, to listen to something the shelter worker was saying about vaccines, and its resident had neatly reached a paw through the bars and tapped him politely on the shoulder.  Dean, who was standing a few feet back, witnessed the entire thing and just about died of cute on the spot, although you’d never catch him admitting it out loud.  Cas had stopped in mid-question, turning to face the kennel, and as soon as his eyes locked with the slanted yellow gaze, the cat in question released his characteristic soft mrrp (the same one that Dean now routinely woke up to on the weekend), in a tone of voice that clearly said he was offering a greeting.

Cas’s eyes had practically turned into emoji-heart-eyes on the spot.  One look at his face and Dean had known they weren’t going home with a pair of kittens.  By the time the shelter worker got done telling them about the cat (who the shelter referred to as “Midnight,” because apparently creativity was not their forte), who had been in the shelter for several months now, waiting politely and patiently for someone to bring him home, Dean had totally lost any desire to remind Cas about their plan for tiny, adorable, playful kittens.

The cat came home with them, and Dean had barely had the chance to ask whether they should keep his shelter name before Cas was announcing that his name was “Etienne.”  He sounded so utterly certain of this that Dean couldn’t bring himself to argue, especially when Etienne offered up another polite trill of approval.

When Dean questioned Cas about the name later, his boyfriend informed him firmly that all black cats were French.  He refused to elaborate on where this particular piece of information came from, but continues to resolutely insist on using a (completely horrible) French accent whenever he narrates Etienne’s thoughts—something he does with some frequency, much to Dean’s amusement.

Cas doesn’t appear likely to do any accents, terrible or otherwise, this morning.  The always messy black hair is a complete catastrophe on the pillow beside Dean, his mouth is hanging open about an inch, and he is drooling very slightly.  Ordinarily, Dean would find this endearing, but today he’s a little irritated by the sight.

He’d had plans for last night, and when he headed into the bedroom around 12:30 with a suggestive glance over his shoulder at Cas, his distracted boyfriend had assured him that he’d be in within the next twenty minutes or so, “as soon as I’m done with this raid.”  Taking him at his word, Dean had slipped into his favorite pair of pink panties, prepped himself (he thought it’d be a nice surprise to just be able to get on with things) and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Granted, he spent the time reading, not just staring at the wall, but still.  By the time 1:30 rolled around, he popped his head back into the living room to discover Cas hunched over his keyboard, so intent upon some quest or other that he didn’t even notice Dean, still clad in panties and nothing else, strolling unhurriedly across the house to grab a glass of water from the kitchen.

Sure, he could’ve figured out a good way (or two) to get Cas’s attention, but by that point he was starting to get sleepy and was too annoyed to particularly want to engage in sexy times.  Dean had put on pajama pants, climbed under the covers, and switched off the light.  When the bed finally shifted with Cas’s additional weight, Dean had cracked open a single eye to discover it was well after three.  So much for that twenty-minute raid.

His annoyance has pretty much faded overnight, but Dean still has to restrain the urge to flick Cas’s forehead.  He’s definitely going to find some (ideally childish and irritating) way to get revenge at some point today, but at the moment there’s a furry gentleman with vivid yellow eyes gazing at him expectantly, and Dean needs to deal with that.

Not bothering to put a shirt on, Dean slips out of bed and pads to the kitchen, Etienne trotting in his wake.  The cat winds around his ankles, purring loudly as Dean washes his bowl and refills it with the shockingly expensive wet food that Dean’s research told him was the best for a cat of Etienne’s age.  Yeah, Cas was definitely the driving force behind getting a cat (and the reason they ended up with Etienne) but he’s Dean’s little buddy too, and Dean looks out for his people.  And cats.

Setting the bowl down on the little plastic mat and leaving Etienne to his meal, Dean reaches into the cupboard to check on how many cans they’ve got left, cursing when he accidentally knocks into the haphazard stack of cat toys beside the food.  He manages to catch the three fuzzy mice before they topple, but his reflexes aren’t quite fast enough to grab the little plastic tube full of green flakes before it tumbles out and onto the floor.

Etienne, who had been happily doing laps in his food bowl, pauses instantly, head swiveling with unerring accuracy toward Dean as he offers up an interrogative mew.

“No, dude,” Dean says, shaking his head, “not now.  Eat your breakfast.”  Etienne mows reprovingly at him but goes back to his food bowl, although Dean will bet anything the instant he’s done eating, he’ll be loudly clamoring for Dean to give him some of the catnip.  Now that he’s spotted it, it’s all over.

For such a laid back little guy, Etienne’s response to catnip will never cease to amuse Dean.  Cas brought some home from the store with him during that first week, and they were both astonished to see it turn their polite, gentlemanly new friend into a maniacal, stoned kitten.  Dean makes sure to give him some at least a couple times a week, but Cas has put his foot down at any more than that, insisting that he doesn’t want Etienne to turn into a stoner.  Dean thought about pointing out that there’s no good reason for a cat not to be a stoner, what with the lack of any need to hold down a job or remain motivated, but he’s learned that some things it’s best just to go with.

A subtle glance at the tube in question as he tries to spirit it back into the cupboard unnoticed tells Dean that a trip to the pet store is in order—they’re very nearly out.  Dean adds that to his mental list of tasks to accomplish sometime this weekend, then reaches back into the cabinet to return the little tube.

That’s when he spots the catnip spray Cas picked up a week or two ago, and suddenly the lightbulb goes on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Castiel**

He really had meant to go to bed early(ish).  Maybe not to sleep; he knew what that saucy glance over Dean’s shoulder meant, but certainly to bed.

But then Charlie and Garth popped on to join Benny, Jo, and himself, and what was supposed to be a quick raid turned into…a whole bunch of not terribly quick raiding.  When he slipped quietly into bed and curled up at Dean’s back, it was with the knowledge that he was probably gonna have to do some groveling in the morning (or possibly early afternoon) when he woke up.  There were for sure at least three Dr. Sexy episodes in his immediate future.

What he didn’t anticipate waking up to was paws on his chest and two large yellow eyes about two inches from his own.

“Jesus Christ!” Cas yelps in surprise, still closer to asleep than awake despite the fact that his heart is pounding.  “Not now, Etienne, Daddy’s sleeping.  I had a late night,” he rasps, gently pushing the cat off of him and settling back down.  The clock on Dean’s bedside table says it’s just past 9:30, which means he’s been asleep less than six hours.  Not even close to enough, especially not on a weekend. 

Castiel is many things, but a morning person has never been one of them.  In general, the cat is respectful of this, recognizing that if he’s gonna wake somebody up, Dean is the easier and more reliable choice.  Cas isn’t sure why the cat decided to visit him this morning—Dean’s not in bed, maybe he ran to the store or something?  Either way, after being moved, Etienne obligingly stalks to the foot of the bed, and Cas closes his eyes and tugs the covers up a little tighter under his chin.

It feels like no more than a few seconds later (but it has to have been longer, because he’d fallen back to sleep) that Cas swims back up toward consciousness to the feeling of a very rough tongue assiduously bathing his forehead.

Cas groans wordlessly, snaking a hand out from under the covers to seize the cat under his midsection and deposit him neatly back on the floor.  “Not _now,”_ he grumbles sleepily, eyes already losing the battle to stay open.

He’s barely settled more firmly into the mattress when he feels the soft thump of a small body landing on the bed.  Castiel ignores it, assuming that Etienne is just going to settle at the foot of the bed where he prefers to sleep.

He’s wrong.

Seconds later, he is jerked more fully awake (literally) when a hank of his hair is snagged and _yanked_ hard enough to separate several strands from his scalp.  Cas yelps again, sitting bolt upright and swatting lightly at the cat, glaring.  “What’s gotten _into_ you this morning?” He demands.  Etienne blinks at him, then meeps insistently.  “Are you—“

His question is interrupted as Dean suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway, clad in pajama pants that hang low on his hips, holding a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in the other.

“The cat wants breakfast,” Cas groans, flopping back onto the pillow.

“Already fed him,” Dean says, raising his brows, “Maybe he just wants love?”

Cas grunts wordlessly, shooing Etienne back down the bed.  “Go snuggle with Dean.”

“C’mere, Etienne,” Dean says idly, strolling over and flopping back down onto his side of the bed, rubbing his fingers together in the universal gesture for summoning a cat.

Etienne gazes over at Dean and delicately picks his way across the bed toward him.

Good enough.

Cas buries his face in the pillow and drifts back off.

Almost.

He’s a hair’s breadth from that really deep, restful sleep when he’s startled back awake by a loud snuffling directly in his ear.

Grunting in frustration, Cas cracks a single eye open just enough to confirm that yes, the cat is indeed sniffing frantically at Castiel’s ear and the side of his face.

“What is your _issue?”_ He demands, turning his head to look at Dean, who has his nose buried in his cup of coffee, his book open on his lap.  “What’s going _on_ with him this morning?”

Dean shrugs, emerging from his mug, his upper lip twitching once, just slightly.  “You were pretty occupied last night.  Maybe he’s just decided he’s not waitin’ any longer for your attention.”

“Well, he’ll have to.” Cas grumbles, reaching up and plucking the cat off the pillow.  He carries Etienne to the bedroom door, depositing him on the floor and shutting the door behind him before trudging back over to bed.

Hell, yeah.  Peace and quiet.

He’s almost fallen back to sleep when Dean speaks up, voice idle.  “What do you think about going out for brunch?”

Cas whines loudly.  “Too _early._ Sleep first.  Eat later.”

“It’s almost ten,” Dean points out helpfully, and Cas grunts.

“Exactly,” he mutters plaintively, “too early.  Lemme sleep.  Please?”

“Suit yourself,” Dean says, patting his shoulder lightly.

Cas drifts back off at last, secure in the knowledge that he’s not going to be disturbed again, either by cat or boyfriend.

Nope.  Wrong again.

No more than fifteen minutes later, he jerks awake to the full weight of Etienne curled up on his chest, nose-to-nose with him, purring loudly and ecstatically.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Cas whimpers, dropping his head back onto the pillow and turning his head to look accusingly at Dean. “You let him back in? What the hell, man?”

“Nope,” Dean says, pointing to the open window.  “Best I can figure, he hopped out the living room window, came around the house, then climbed in the bedroom window.  Little guy’s a problem solver,” he says proudly.

“Why the hell are the windows open anyway?” Cas demands, and Dean snorts, lips twitching in amusement.

“Because you refuse to sleep with them closed?”

“That’s a stupid reason,” Cas grumbles, reaching down to grab the cat and dropping him back onto the floor, then seizing his pillow and smooshing it down over his own face.

There.  Peace and quiet this time.  Right?

Wrong.

Maybe two minutes later, something warm and furry noses its way under the pillow and right up next to Cas’s face.  There’s a brief pause, and then the all-too-familiar rough tongue is enthusiastically going to town on the bridge of his nose.

“GAH,” Cas vents his frustration in a wordless sound, flinging the pillow off of him and sitting up.  _“Fine,_ you little shit, I’m up!”

Etienne promptly bursts into purrs, leaning up to bonk his forehead firmly against Castiel’s. 

“Goddammit, stop being cute.  I can’t even stay pissed at you properly,” Cas accuses, glancing next to him to find Dean, studiously bent over his book, shoulders trembling ever-so-slightly.  Cas doesn’t give much thought to it as he rolls out of bed and staggers toward the bathroom to take a piss, Etienne trotting intently in his wake.  If the cat won’t let him sleep, maybe Dean’s idea of brunch isn’t a terrible one.  Then when they get back he can shut himself into the bedroom—windows _closed—_ and take a nap.

A few minutes later, bladder taken care of, Cas grabs his toothbrush, removes a purring Etienne from the sink (seriously, what the hell is going _on_ with him?) and gets to work clearing out his morning breath.  When he’s finished, he leans over the sink to spit, then frowns as a few tiny flakes of green flutter down onto the porcelain.  What the hell?

Shaking his head a little causes the green snow to multiply dramatically.  Cas reaches up to run his fingers through his hair.  They come away covered in little bits of crumbly green.

Still far from truly alert, Cas stares stupidly at the debris in his hand for a few long moments before a suspicion starts to build.  That stuff looks like—it almost looks like…

Cas lifts his hand, rubbing his fingers together to crumple the stuff up further, then sniffs delicately at it.

Catnip.

There is catnip in his fucking _hair._

“DEEEEEAAAAN!”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Castiel**

Castiel makes it back across the house and into the bedroom in about ten seconds flat, and it only takes that long because he nearly trips over the damn cat, whose plaintive meows make a hell of a lot more sense now.

The man in question is almost exactly where Cas left him, except that rather than being seated on his own side of the bed with a book in his lap, Dean is sprawled out on his back in the middle of the bed, body shaking violently with the force of his hysterics.

“What the _fuck,”_ Cas demands, thrusting his palm, strewn with catnip crumbs, in Dean’s direction, “is _this?_ ”

Dean cracks open one eye, sees the little green crumbs in Castiel’s hand, and somehow manages to laugh even harder.

One of the most charming and frustrating things about Dean (and interestingly enough, many of his most charming and frustrating features are one and the same) is how incredibly infectious his laughter is.  When Dean’s amused, it’s a pretty solid bet that everyone in the room is gonna be laughing before long, even if they don’t actually have half a clue what’s so funny.

Even after well over two years together, Cas still has to work really damn hard not to get swept along with Dean’s amusement, whatever its source.  Even now, he’s fighting to prevent his lips from twitching, because if he’s going to fucking throttle his obnoxious dick of a boyfriend, he probably shouldn’t be laughing while he does it.  Besides, Dean is laughing more than hard enough for the both of them.

_“Well?”_ Cas demands when no answer is forthcoming.  Dean is showing no signs of slowing down, but he does manage to get himself together just enough to point at his own bedside table.  Cas swivels toward it, jaw dropping a little as his gaze settles on its surface.  All of the usual items are there—alarm clock, glass of water, the chapstick Dean frequently forces Cas to use, Dean’s hairbrush, the bottle of lube neither of them bothered to put away after they were done fucking two nights ago—but there are also two new items.  Resting innocently alongside the other assorted detritus are a small empty plastic tube, a few tiny green crumbs clinging to its sides, and a little green spray bottle.

There are about four seconds in which Cas’s blood pressure rises so rapidly that his head might actually explode, and then, just like that, it’s over, his fury defused.  Had he thought for even three seconds before tossing the catnip spray in the cart at the pet store, he could’ve foreseen exactly this eventuality.

See, Dean is many things.  He is intelligent and warm.  He is generous and kind-hearted.  He’s witty and somewhat emotionally constipated. 

And he is a brat. 

There’s really no other word for it, although Cas has been known to use a hell of a lot of other words (obnoxious, dickhead, insufferable, asshole, and infuriating are just a few that come to mind).  When he’s frustrated or impatient or a little annoyed, he defaults to being intensely obnoxious in the hopes of provoking a very specific kind of response.

He’s almost invariably successful, and today’s gonna be no exception—in part because Cas has instantly divined that this is his payback for neglecting Dean’s unspoken invitation in favor of raiding last night, and in part because Cas is only too eager to take this little prank out of Dean’s ass.  In more than one way.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Cas says, voice going deceptively calm and collected, “that you not only sprinkled catnip in my hair, you also put catnip spray on—huh.  Was it my pillow?”

Dean laughs even harder, opening his mouth to respond, but unable to choke out words.  He has to settle for shaking his head in the negative.

“Not the pillow,” Cas says, pacing a little closer to the bed, keeping his eyes on the bedside table, as if the fact that he is drawing ever nearer to Dean is incidental.  “That begs the question of—“ Cas pauses in mid-sentence as it suddenly clicks.  “Really, Dean?” His tone of voice is remarkably mild, which is taking some effort.  Not because he’s about to lose his shit and yell at Dean, mind you—it’s because Cas is on the verge of breaking into laughter himself.  It’s just so fucking absurd.  Creative and obnoxious and entirely _Dean._ “My face?You put catnip spray on my _face_ while I was sleeping? _”_

Dean finally manages to choke out words.  “An’—an’ then you reached up and rubbed it in.  V-very accomo—“ here he breaks off again, cracking up for a second before he manages to squeeze out the rest of the sentence.  “—accommodating of you.”

“I do aim to please,” Cas says pleasantly, and then, when Dean reaches up to swipe tears of mirth out of his eyes, he makes his move.  Fast as a striking snake, Cas pounces, seizing the culprit’s wrist in one hand and yanking.  Dropping to sit on the edge of the bed, Cas easily manhandles Dean until he is draped over Cas’s knees, pajama-clad ass upturned.  “And,” Cas continues as though nothing happened, “far be it from me to deny your unspoken request to start the weekend with a sore ass.”

“Caaaas,” Dean whines, but the effect is ruined by the fact that he’s still laughing.

“Oh, don’t start,” Cas says, laying down a pair of solid smacks on each cheek, “this is exactly what you were angling for, and you’re damn well gonna get it.  Using _the cat_ in your quest for revenge?  That’s just a whole other—you know,” he interrupts himself, lips twitching harder now that Dean can’t see them, “you’re sort of ruining my whole speech here with your cackling.”

“S—s—sorry,” Dean says, not sounding remotely sorry.

“No, you’re not,” Cas tells him good-naturedly, “but let’s see if we can get you there.”

Dean hasn’t stopped laughing, but a little shudder skates down his spine, stippling his bare back in gooseflesh.  He’s so _responsive,_ not merely to touch but to words.  It’s one of the many things Cas loves about him.

Cas doesn’t waste any time.  He starts hard and fast, figuring that with the dual layers of boxers and sleep pants to protect himself, Dean can handle some solid swats.  Cas covers the surface before him, from the spot where Dean’s ass and thighs meet up to the base of his spine, until Dean’s giggles are interspersed with little gasps.  Then he pauses to rub for a moment.

“I must say,” Cas observes lightly, “this is impressively creative, even for you.”

“Thanks for noticing,” Dean tells him, and Cas has to stifle a snicker at how goddamn proud he sounds of himself.

“Really not fair to tease Etienne like that, though.”

“You kiddin’?  You and catnip are the two things he loves most in the world.  This was like fuckin’ Christmas morning for him.”

“You may be right,” Cas says thoughtfully, then blinks as the cat in question appears as if summoned by his name.  He stands at Cas’s feet for a moment, yellow eyes focused intently on his face.  Cas suddenly knows, a second before it happens, what the cat is about to do.  He could stop it easily enough, but no, it seems only fair to sit back and allow it.

Sure enough, in one deft movement, Etienne leaps from the floor onto Cas’s lap—or rather, the surface currently obstructing Cas’s lap.  Dean jerks a little, startled, as the weight of the cat lands on his no doubt lightly stinging ass.  “What the—“

“If ever there were a situation in which the words ‘reaping what you sow’ come to mind,” Cas muses idly, “this would be it.”

“Seriously?  You’re not gonna move him?” Dean says after a brief pause.

“House rules,” Cas reminds him, grateful that Dean can’t see his grin as Etienne starts kneading the clothed surface of Dean’s butt while sniffing Cas’s face, “and don’t you dare squirm your way into him moving, or so help me I’ll go log on and find a raid right this second, and you can figure out how to amuse yourself.”

He can practically hear Dean pouting, but he knows the house rules as well as Cas does.

See, it didn’t take long after Etienne came home for both Dean and Cas to discover that they were shameless suckers for the little guy.  What this meant in practice was that when he deigned to settle himself in one of their laps, they weren’t moving until he decamped.  Thus whoever was currently cat-unencumbered became responsible for taking care of anything that required mobility, most often fetching and carrying for Etienne’s snuggle-buddy.  All it took to activate this was the invocation of their one and only inviolable house rule: you don’t disturb a comfortable cat.

“Are you—I mean—that’s—“ Dean splutters, caught between sounding offended and like he’s about to completely lose it again.

“Well, I’m not the one who covered my face in catnip, thus making it irresistible to a certain furry gentleman,” Cas points out reasonably, and Dean is brought up short for a moment.

“Y’know,” Dean says, then pauses as he realizes he doesn’t actually have any good arguments.

“Answer me something,” Cas says, “as long as the proceedings are on pause.”

“Yeah?” Dean inquires, a little cautiously.

“Did you actually let Etienne back into the bedroom when I kicked him out?”

“Oh!” Dean says, relieved, “No, actually, I was tellin’ the truth.  He came around the house and hopped in the window.”

“Clever boy,” Cas compliments the cat, scritching under his chin.  Etienne stretches his neck out and closes his eyes in utter bliss, still kneading away.  “In that case,” Cas tells Dean after a moment, “I suppose we can make an exception to house rules.  With a caveat.”

“Uh huh?” Dean asks, squirming just a little but not enough to dislodge the cat.

“If you can get Etienne off your ass, out of the room, get the windows closed, and get back over my knee before I count to fifteen, we can proceed cat-free.  If not, he gets to stay, and you know he feels quite driven to be near my face at the moment.”

There’s a moment of silence while Dean processes this, then he swivels his head over his shoulder toward Cas.  “You’re not plannin’ on turbo-charged counting are you?” He demands.  Cas snorts.

“That’s a risk you’re just going to have to take, isn’t it?”

“You’re such a—“ Dean cuts off, as though remembering that he’s bent over Cas’s knee with his ass uppermost, an easy target if Cas decides to move the cat currently shielding it.

“Yes?” Cas asks “I’m anxious to hear what I am.”

“Nothing,” Dean mutters, “yeah, I’m in.”

“That’s what I thought.  One…”

The second he starts counting, Dean is in motion. He stands up carefully, sacrificing a little time to make sure Etienne has the chance to jump down rather than being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.  Cas has to suppress a smile at this tiny selfless act, counting a little slower than he otherwise might have.

By the time he hits five, Dean has carefully scooped up Etienne and strode to the door, setting him down in the hallway and shutting the door.  Dean hurries across the room to the windows, grunting in frustration as the one nearest the bed sticks a little, as usual.  Cas keeps counting, voice implacable, and he’s just hit eleven as Dean finally wins the battle and moves on to the second window.

He’s at fourteen when that one slides shut, enjoying the sight of Dean scrambling frantically back across the room.

“Fifteen,” Cas says, voice remarkably calm considering the six feet of boyfriend that have just flung themselves across his lap.  “Impressive,” he compliments, as Dean hisses out a sigh of relief.  “Now, where was I?”

There’s a moment of silence, in which Dean is clearly waiting for Cas’s next move, assuming the question was rhetorical.

“I asked you a question,” Cas says, adding just the right amount of sharpness to his voice.  “Where was I?”

“You were either about to spank my ass red or use it as a tea tray, and I’m pretty fuckin’ sure you hate tea,” Dean quips, and Cas poorly conceals his snort of laughter in a cough.

“That’s a hell of a lot of attitude for someone who’s already in trouble,” Cas observes, laying a single, very firm swat directly in the center of Dean’s cheeks.

“Oh, you love it,” Dean tells him, astonishingly cocky for a guy who’s over his boyfriend’s knee, and Cas smacks him again, _hard,_ earning a strangled gasp as his body jerks.

“Is that—are you okay?” Cas checks in, and Dean snorts loudly.

“Dude, d’you really think I didn’t know exactly how this was gonna end up when I sprinkled the rest of the catnip in your _hair?_ ‘m _fine.”_

“Touché,” Cas concedes, relaxing, “and in that case, let’s get on with it.”  He wastes no more time in reaching down to Dean’s waist, sliding his fingers into the waistband of his sleep pants and tugging them down to mid-thigh.  The sight that awaits him beneath them is a pleasant surprise.

The sheer pink satin poorly conceals the very light pink tinge of the rounded cheeks beneath it, the panties displaying those gorgeous curves to great advantage.    “Oh,” Cas says, soft and a little reverent, unable to resist stroking his fingers across the silken fabric guarding one of his favorite surfaces.  It takes a concerted effort to clear his throat and get back the proper demeanor.  “My goodness,” he says, “what a lovely surprise.  For me?”

“Well they _were_ when I put them on last night,” Dean grumbles, and Cas winces silently.  Shit.  He’d figured Dean wanted to fool around, yeah, but he didn’t realize it was like _that._ It’s a little silly, but Dean only breaks out the panties when he’s looking for a little bit of a special night.  It’s as much an invitation as Dean’s catnip antics were, albeit a slightly different one.

“Then I obviously made very poor decisions,” Cas says, the apology clear in his voice, “not to take full advantage of them.”  He can feel Dean relaxing a little at the acknowledgment, whatever irritation he was still harboring starting to ease.

“Well,” Dean says, cockiness back in full, “better late than never.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Cas says.  “I was going to take your boxers down, but I think we’ll have to let these stay put for the moment.  They’re far too lovely to relocate just yet.”

“They’re not too—“ Dean cuts himself off, still somewhat self-conscious about his panty thing, no matter how many times Cas has made it clear that he is completely on board.

Rather than responding immediately, Cas stops petting the delicious curves of Dean’s ass through the satin and delivers three very firm smacks, one for each cheek and one across the middle.  “They’re perfect,” he says firmly over Dean’s sharp inhalation.  _“You’re_ perfect.  Obnoxious and infuriating, but perfect.  And while they say you can’t improve upon perfection, I’ve got a suspicion that this incredible ass will be even more perfect with a little more color.”

“Well then what you are waitin’ for?” Dean demands, and Cas has to laugh.

“An excellent question,” he agrees, and then sets about his task.  He works methodically, starting on Dean’s left cheek and covering it in smacks from the top of his ass to his upper thigh before switching over to the right, this time starting from the bottom and working up.  After the first round, he stops to nudge Dean’s legs apart enough to part his cheeks slightly, until his hole is just barely visible through the satin.  Then he delivers three sharp slaps in a row, directly across the center of Dean’s ass.  This, finally, is enough to earn a yelp where there were only little gasps before now, and Cas smiles, rubbing his hand over the nicely pinkening curves.  He’s just opening his mouth to make an observation about how nice the pink of the panties looks overlaying the pink of Dean’s ass when from outside the bedroom, a softly plaintive mewl sounds.  Cas snorts as Dean’s bare back starts to shake a little with suppressed snickers.

“You’ve created a monster,” Cas tells Dean, starting up again, peppering the flesh with rapid-fire light smacks now, enjoying the sight of flexing cheeks.

“We’ll have to give him some for real or he’ll never shut up,” Dean agrees.

Cas starts to point out that Dean used the last of it, then pauses and snaps his mouth shut, a truly diabolical idea starting to come together.  Instead of responding verbally, he settles for making a noncommittal sound.  Dean doesn’t appear to think anything of it, probably mostly because his attention is focused on the building sting in his ass.

As long as his legs are parted, Cas takes the time to deliver some well-placed swats to the tender flesh of his inner thighs, making Dean jump.  Cas pauses at the sound of a whimper, brows knitting a little in concern.  “Are you—“

“Dude,” Dean interrupts, sounding distinctly put upon, “‘m _good._ I’ll let you know if that changes.”

Cas has to laugh, but his amusement doesn’t stop him from laying down a vigorous series of spanks across the line where Dean’s ass and thighs meet.  “Sassy,” he scolds mildly, and Dean laughs breathlessly in between grunts.

“What, you’re surprised?” He says, the smirk easily recognizable in his voice, “Haven’t you been payin’ attention?”

“Oh, I have,” Cas assures him, “and no, it’s not especially surprising, although I have to admire the shamelessness, considering your current position and the fact that I can reach your hairbrush without having to move.”

This is true enough—Cas is within easy reach of the bedside table and the hairbrush in question.  Dean groans a little, although whether in anticipation or dread Cas couldn’t say.  Probably a little of both.  Cas doesn’t actually have any plans to use the hairbrush, but he’s always open to changing his mind if the situation seems to call for it.

“I mean,” Dean says breathlessly, “if that’s supposed to be a deterrent—“

“Ha,” Cas says dryly, “I think I know you better than that.  But I’ve got something else in mind.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean says, interested, and Cas has to stifle a grin as he reaches over and slides open the bedside table drawer.  Dean is facing the other way, so he can’t see what Cas is doing as he retrieves a medium-sized plug and snags the lube off the bedside table.  Cas can feel the curiosity practically leaking from his pores, but Dean doesn’t try to turn around or crane his neck to find out what’s going on.

Cas sets the items beside him on the bed, then eases the panties down just below the curve of Dean’s ass, pausing to admire the sight laid out before him.  Dean will never know just how lovely he really looks like this, although Cas has taken and shown him a picture a time or two.  It’s spectacular, the nicely pink cheeks framed by the slightly lighter pink satin.

Cas slides a single finger down the length of Dean’s crack, freezing as he discovers that the tightly furled muscle is neither quite as tight nor as dry as he would’ve expected.  “What’s this?” he inquires, carefully nudging a fingertip just past Dean’s rim and discovering that yes, he is indeed a little slick.  Not enough for what Cas has in mind, certainly, but enough that Cas suspects the panties weren’t the only preparations Dean made last night.  He goes on without giving Dean a chance to answer.  “You have no idea,” he tells Dean meditatively, “how much I am currently regretting my decisions last night.”

“I should fuckin’ hope so,” Dean snarks, but there’s no heat in it.  He’s getting the attention he wanted last night and then some, and the sting in his ass seems to be going a long way to easing the sting of what must have felt like rejection.

Cas lets the snideness slide, snagging the bottle of lube and slicking up two fingers before he starts to probe between Dean’s cheeks, renewing and building upon the prep Dean did.

Within a minute or two he’s got both sliding in and out, leisurely fucking Dean with them, deliberately grazing his prostate every couple thrusts.  Dean is hard and leaking against Cas’s bare thigh, hips squirming a little as he presses them back into the fingers.  Cas starts spanking again without warning, laying down a solid two dozen smacks with little rhyme or reason to where they fall, letting Dean guess.  By the time he hits the twentieth spank, Dean is groaning, hips working rhythmically as he rubs himself against Cas’s thigh.  He’s nowhere near orgasm but if Cas kept going for another couple minutes it’d be easy enough to get him there.

It's tempting—Cas does love to see the beautiful man over his lap come apart under his touch—but he reminds himself that he’s got plans, sliding his fingers out of Dean with some reluctance.  Dean makes an outraged sound, his ass pressing back as if to chase them.  Cas grins a little, snagging the plug and wiping the excess lube from his fingers off onto it.  Between that and Dean’s very well-lubricated hole, the plug enters easily, and Cas thoroughly enjoys the moan the penetration draws out of his boyfriend.

“Not—not gonna fuck me yet?” Dean inquires, a little bit of a whine in his voice, and Cas laughs.

“Oh, no,” he says, sliding Dean’s underwear back up and into place. Patting his ass quite firmly directly over the base of the plug, Cas’s grin widens at the surprised groan.  “We’ve got an errand to run first.  And I haven’t even finished your spanking yet.  Come now, you’re barely pink.  You can take more than that.”

It takes a second for Dean to sort through this, and when he does he zeroes in on exactly what Cas knew he would.  “An _errand?_ What the hell are—“

“You said it yourself, we’ll need to give Etienne catnip or he’ll be insufferable all day, and it just so happens that _somebody_ used the last of the catnip.”

There’s a moment of silence in which Cas can practically hear Dean goggling in astonishment.  “You’re—you’re joking, right?”

“Oh, no,” Cas assures him, then pats his ass again, this time on the undercurve, deliberately avoiding the plug, “c’mon, up.”

Dean stays put for a second, then very slowly clambers upright.  His face is a little flushed from having his head down for the last ten or fifteen minutes, and his eyes are wide as they affix on Cas’s face.  “You’re…you’re actually planning on going to the _pet store?”_  

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Cas asks, getting his grin under control and raising a single brow.  Dean shudders a little—he does love that eyebrow thing—and falls silent.  “Exactly.  Now get dressed.  Quick!” He claps his hands together, breaking the spell Dean appears to be under, and steps to his own dresser, reaching in to snag a pair of shorts that he slips on.  He’ll worry about showering and getting presentable later—this trip is intended to be a quick one, and has a lot more to do with tormenting Dean than with actually running the errand in question.  By the time he pulls out a t-shirt, Dean has broken his paralysis and gone to his own dresser, walking slightly gingerly in that way Cas easily recognizes but nobody else would likely spot.  He’s trying not to stimulate himself too much with the plug.  It’s a losing battle, of course, but Cas does enjoy watching him try.

Cas also enjoys the process of watching him figure out what to wear—if he goes with shorts, his erection will be painfully visible, but jeans will be harder on his no doubt still stinging ass.

In the end he decides on the jeans, exactly as Cas was hoping he would, gingerly pulling them up and tucking his erection into them.  He tops them with a faded Black Sabbath tee that’s probably on its last legs, then shoves his feet into sandals and turns to Cas, expression uncertain.

Cas crosses the room, lightly taking his elbows and meeting his eyes.  “Is this—if this is too much,” he says, “we don’t have to—“

Dean squares his shoulders, then gives Cas a grin.  “When’ve you ever known me to back down from a challenge?”

“Never, but—“

“You’re ruining it, dude.” Dean interrupts, looking slightly aggrieved, and Cas gets it.  In order for this to be fun, he needs to put back on his hard-ass face.  Yeah, he can do that.  He aims to please, after all.

“Good boy,” he picks up smoothly, “getting dressed so quickly.  Now get your ass in the car, and don’t dawdle or I’ll figure I didn’t spank you enough and bend you over the hood.”

The shudder that goes through Dean at the mental picture is more satisfying than Cas could begin to put into words.  When Dean turns to leave the bedroom, Cas lays a single, very solid smack directly across the spot he knows the base of the plug to be.  Dean groans, his head falling back on his neck as he goes up onto his toes, and Cas takes a moment to thank whatever deities might be listening for giving him such a gorgeously responsive man for his very own.

It takes a second for Dean to regain what little composure he’s going to be able to manage, and Cas deliberately waits until he knows Dean’s good to go before speaking, tone ominous.  “One…”

Dean has no idea what will happen when Cas gets to whatever number he’s thinking of, and neither does Cas for that matter.  Certainly he’s got no plans of actually bending Dean over the hood of his muscle car and spanking him raw in the middle of suburbia, no matter how enticing the idea may be.  Thankfully, Dean doesn’t test him on this, glancing quickly over his shoulder at Cas, eyes wide, and making a beeline out of the bedroom and for the door.  Cas follows somewhat more sedately, grabbing the keys off their hook and shutting the door firmly behind them.  Cas is backing the car out of the driveway when Etienne appears on the front step, no doubt having escaped through the window when he realized they were leaving.  Unusually accusing yellow eyes follow them down the street, and Dean snorts.  “Guess this was a good call.  That’s the face of a cat who was ready to murder us in our sleep if we don’t feed his addiction.”

Cas snorts, making a turn and ignoring the quizzical look that Dean gives him.  Yeah, this is not the usual route to the pet store, but the usual route to the pet store doesn’t have three blocks in which the original cobblestones haven’t been paved over.  Cas can’t wait to see what Dean’s stinging ass and the plug buried between his cheeks make of it.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Dean**

“You’ve got thirty seconds from the moment I shut this car off to be on your knees, bent over the end of the bed, wearing only your panties and the plug,” Cas says conversationally as they pull back into the driveway thirty minutes later.

Dean is squirming—has been squirming the entire time, pretty much, and the fucking route Cas took to _and from_ the pet store hasn’t exactly helped the situation.  He’s pretty sure he’s been leaking enough precome to practically soak through his jeans (his panties must be a hot mess), and he’s so hard it’s practically painful.

Who knew that being secretly dominated in public would do it for him?  Well, Cas must’ve had an inkling, because he definitely only does stuff he’s sure Dean is gonna love (he’s so meticulous about checking in and repeatedly reaffirming consent that it’s a little ridiculous; Dean has been known to accuse him of ruining the mood).

“Y—yeah,” Dean breathes as Cas turns into the driveway, “got it.”  The instant Cas shuts the car off, Dean is on the move, throwing open the car door and rushing toward the front door of the house, biting his lip to stifle the loud groan that wants to emerge as the plug jostles enthusiastically against his prostate.  Jesus Fucking Christ, Cas _would_ have to choose this particular size.

He gets the door open as Cas emerges from the car, and damned if that fucker isn’t counting out loud.  “Seven,” he says calmly as Dean flings himself inside, ignoring the insistent meowing of Etienne, who slinks inside after him.

“Addict,” Dean accuses, throwing the word over his shoulder toward the cat, who meeps back at him impatiently.

Dean’s already working on his clothes as he hurries down the hallway toward the bedroom, and yeah, he knows logically that if he doesn’t make it in time, whatever happens will probably be exactly the same thing that’ll happen if he _does_ make it, but somehow the knowledge is not enough to decrease his sense of urgency.  He kicks off his sandals, discarding one in the hallway, grimacing as he shakes the other off a little too enthusiastically and watches it sail across the living room and bounce off the wall.  Oops.  Behind him, Cas is closing and locking the door to the house, still counting.  “Eighteen.”

Dean yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it into a corner of the bedroom, then goes to work on his jeans, grimacing as he shimmies out of them.  The sting in his ass has faded to mild tenderness, although he’s pretty fucking sure Cas plans to reignite it.  He sighs as he gets the denim below his ass, easing the pressure on the plug and releasing his erection, which springs free and to attention.

“Twenty-seven,” Cas says, coming to stand in the doorway to the bedroom.  Dean’s about to go to his knees when he remembers the conversation they had last month.  The upshot was, if Cas tells Dean to kneel, Dean should assume what he actually means is ‘get a pillow and kneel on _that.’_

Dean flings himself across the room, seizing his pillow and dropping it at the foot of the bed (“twenty-eight”) then falling to his knees on it (“twenty-nine”) and quickly bending over, resting his torso on the slightly mussed bedspread.

“Thirty,” Cas finishes, satisfaction in his voice.  “Very good.  Now stay right there.  I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“… _what?!”_ Dean demands, actually panting from the exertion and irrationally offended that all that frantic activity is resulting in being told to _wait._

“Catnip,” Cas reminds him, and Dean relaxes a little.  Yeah, fine, that was after all the whole purpose of the expedition (in which Cas made a point of making Dean bend over way more than strictly necessary considering that nothing they actually needed to buy was on the bottom shelves).

Dean can hear Cas’s footsteps receding followed by the indulgent voice he uses only for Etienne.  Dean groans a little, reaching down to adjust his erection to a more comfortable position inside his panties, gasping as just the touch of his fingertips is enough to send a jolt of sensation through him.  Fuck, he’s hovering ridiculously close to orgasm, considering that this is the first time anybody’s actually laid a finger on his cock.

“Your hand better not be where I think it is,” comes the familiar growl from the doorway, and Dean rapidly jerks his hand away from himself, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he tries to come up with an excuse Cas will actually accept.

“I was just—“

“Uh huh,” Cas says, unimpressed without even hearing the excuse.  “If I can’t trust you to keep your hands away from yourself, we’ll just have to get them out of the way.  Behind your back, please.”

Dean whimpers a little, cock throbbing at the tone of voice and the order.  He wastes no time in obeying, crossing his wrists and listening to Cas rustle around in the closet.

Turning his head, he spots the expected length of soft rope in Cas’s hands just before Cas steps around behind him, leaning over to bind his wrists together snugly but not uncomfortably.

“How’s that?” Cas asks, carefully testing the tightness of the bonds, “not too tight?”

“No, ‘m good,” he says, turning his head to crane his neck over his shoulder.  He doesn’t get far before Cas’s hand falls hard on his left cheek.

“Eyes front,” he rebukes lightly, and then Dean feels fingertips slip into the waistband of his panties (which are indeed drenched in the front, where they are barely containing his cock), sliding them down to mid-thigh.  “I just wanted the pleasure of taking these down myself,” Cas explains, “before I turn your ass a much brighter shade of red.  Now arch your back for me.  A little more.  Good.”

Dean groans, wriggling his hips enticingly.  “Sure you don’t wanna fuck me?”

“Oh, I do,” Cas assures him, “and I will, but your ass has had so much time to cool off.  I want to feel it radiating heat when I take you.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, “you’re tryin’ to kill me, aren’t you?”

Cas barks out a laugh but doesn’t respond, just goes to his knees beside Dean and starts laying down swats which echo crisply in the room, so much louder skin-to-skin than over even the thin panties.

He doesn’t waste time and he doesn’t hold back this time, applying himself (and his hand) with great dedication to the task of turning Dean’s ass a uniform bright red.  Inside of a few minutes Dean is squirming against the edge of the bed, offering up little grunts and the occasional yelp.  Cas just slides in a little closer so his groin is pressed against Dean’s nearer hip, places his free hand on Dean’s opposite hip, and holds him steady.  This serves the dual purpose of preventing excessive squirming and letting Dean feel the hot, hard length of Cas’s erection, prodding insistently at him through Cas’s shorts.

Then he goes back to work, and this time he talks.  “If you’re going to be a brat,” he says, “I’m going to treat you like one.”  Oh, God, Dean’s told him more than once that he loves it when Cas gets scoldy, but it’s only been in the last few months that he’s really started to integrate this into their play.  “Catnip?  Really, if you wanted my attention, you could have simply asked for it.  Imagine where you could be now, but no, you’re bent over the bed having your ass tanned for being an obnoxious little shit.”

“Not sure where else I’d rather be,” Dean points out, then hisses as Cas delivers three sharp smacks on the base of the plug.  “Oh, _fuck.”_

“I didn’t ask for your input,” Cas tells him, but there’s a smile in his voice as he continues the spanking.  The burn in Dean’s ass is intensifying, and by the time Cas focuses at least a dozen harsh swats on his upper thighs, Dean can feel his eyes start to prickle.  “Now say you’re sorry.”

“But ‘m not,” Dean shoots back, smirking despite himself, then whimpering as Cas delivers a rapid-fire flurry of spanks over his sit bones.  God, he knows the whole catnip gig was cause he was annoyed, but it turns out it’s one of the best ideas he’s had recently on its own merits, because this is the best Saturday morning Dean can remember in a long fucking time.

“I didn’t ask whether you were sorry,” Cas says, his voice deliberately and ostentatiously long-suffering, “I just told you to _say_ you were sorry.  Or we can carry on doing this, but you should probably be aware that I have no intention of fucking you until I’ve heard a reasonably convincing apolo—“

_“Sorry!”_ Dean practically shouts, more than ready to get this show on the road.  “’m really sorry, Cas, it was rude not to let you sleep when you’d been up so late last night.”

“So it was,” Cas says, delivering one last swat to each cheek before drawing back, “and that was a very good apology.  If I didn’t know better I’d actually believe you meant it.”

Dean listens to the rustle of clothes behind him as Cas disrobes, enjoying the heat suffusing his ass and thighs, the slight strain of his shoulders, the slide of the soft rope against his wrists.  The combination of the sensations is perfect, made only more so when Dean deliberately clenches his muscles around the plug, causing it to press a little more firmly against his prostate and drawing a little groan from him.

“That does look like fun,” Cas observes as he settles back behind Dean, edging forward and nudging Dean’s knees apart until he can kneel between them, “but I bet I can replace it with something even more fun.”

“God,” Dean groans, “are you ever gonna shut up and fu—fuck m—ah, shit!” his demand is cut off in a curse as Cas lays by far the hardest smack yet just over the plug.

“Manners,” he admonishes, and Dean whimpers. 

_“Please_ fuck me?”

“Much better,” Cas compliments, and then the plug is sliding out of Dean and something bigger, longer, and a hell of a lot warmer is sliding in.  Cas’s hips snug up against Dean’s ass, the pressure against his punished cheeks reigniting the sting and making him wriggle like a worm caught on a hook.  Cas makes a soft sound of appreciation at the sight Dean must present.  “God, you feel incredible.  Your ass has to be ten degrees hotter than the rest of you, and that _squirming,_ fuck.  You’re perfect.”

“Are—are you gonna write me poems, or are you gonna fuck me?” Dean demands, then cries out as Cas’s hand descends on the outside of his thigh sharply.

“Oh, I see,” he says, voice amused, “you _want_ a little more of that.  I can certainly oblige.”

And he does.  One hand grasps Dean’s hip to hold him still and the other returns to laying down spanks, timing them in between the slow and steady thrusts he starts up.  Dean feels like he’s been on the verge of orgasm for at least an hour now, his erection and arousal not only undaunted but further stoked by the intensity of the spanking Cas delivered.  It’s probably not real surprising that inside of two or three minutes he feels his balls start to draw up.

Somehow Cas seems to know—he always knows—and the hand that’s been smacking him suddenly worms its way between Dean and the bed, squeezing the base of his cock.  The climax abates, and Dean groans in frustration.  “C’mon,” he whines, “you fuckin’—“

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence,” Cas pants, speeding his thrusts and keeping his fingers clasped around Dean’s dick, a living cockring.  “Instead, I would ask nicely for what you want.”

“Ple—please can I fuckin’ come?” Dean says, more a demand than an actual plea, and Cas laughs breathlessly.

“You can do better than that,” he insists, driving into Dean a little harder, the collision of hips against ass echoing through the room nearly as loudly as the spanks did.

“May I please have an orgasm, _sir?”_ Dean gasps, throwing in the trump card, the one thing he knows is bound to do it.

He’s not wrong.

The hand that has been squeezing the base of his cock eases suddenly, starting to move, taking up a much slower but no less titillating rhythm than his pounding hips against Dean’s smarting ass.

“Come for me, Dean,” he grunts, half order and half permission, and it can’t be more than another ten seconds before Dean does, crying out and spilling over Cas’s hand, muscles tightening involuntarily around the cock impaling him.  Cas had stopped thrusting the moment Dean started to come, instead rolling his hips, remaining buried to the hilt to appreciate the clench of Dean’s muscles.

It’s not until Dean’s finally starting to come down, muscles easing, that he realizes Cas hasn’t come yet.  “You didn’t—“

“It’s fine, we can—“

“No, I want you to.  C’mon, fuck me.  Fill me up.  Heat my ass up with your hips,” Dean says, able to dredge up some reasonably quality dirty talk despite the fact that he feels a little like he’s about to melt into the mattress.

_“Fuck,”_ Cas breathes, taking him at his word and starting to fuck him in quick, shallow strokes, “the _mouth_ on you.”

“Play your cards right and you can have more fun with that mouth later today,” Dean tells him, and apparently those are the magic words.  Cas’s hips lose their rhythm, stuttering as he comes with a shout.  Dean deliberately clenches his muscles, milking Cas through his orgasm and enjoying the strangled groan of surprise and pleasure he earns.

Cas damn near collapses on top of him, panting harshly, but it’s barely thirty seconds before he gets himself together enough to kneel back up, scrabbling with the rope around Dean’s wrists until he releases them.

It’s another few minutes before either of them are truly verbal.  Somehow they’ve scrambled up onto the bed, Cas stretched out on his back and Dean laid out on his stomach beside him, one arm slung across Cas’s middle as they kiss, slow and sweet and languid.

“Jesus, that ass,” Cas groans, sliding his fingertips across the brilliant red surface in question and making Dean hiss out a breath.

“You’ve never been able to resist it,” Dean agrees, then pauses and snorts with laughter.  Cas quirks a brow at him in silent question.  Dean should probably resist the urge, but his impulse control has never been that good.  He’s chortling before the words have even left his mouth.  “You might say it’s…like catnip.”

 “Oh my God,” Cas groans, “I hate you so much.” The half-hearted smack he aims in the general direction of Dean’s ass does nothing whatsoever to halt Dean’s snickering.

“No, you don’t.” Dean tells him simply.

“No, I don’t,” Cas agrees, stealing another kiss, “you insufferable brat.”

“Awww, Cas,” Dean says, offering his most charming grin as he leans in for yet another kiss, “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone awaiting updates on [Down to Size](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6921097/) and [No Haven in this World](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7196144/), please see [this post on tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com/post/148851449532/update-from-kreweofimp) for details on why I'm sort of on indefinite hiatus (although as evidenced by the existence of this fic, it's spotty).


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